


Quantifiable

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan seeks clarification on several points.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quantifiable

**Author's Note:**

> I’m working on half a dozen other things right now but R ship week has proved wonderfully distracting; this conversation all but wrote itself.

"Give me a ballpark figure. Guys to girls ratio so far."

Grantaire didn’t open his eyes but he frowned slightly. “Is this the bisexual obstacle course?”

”I’m just curious.” Jehan rolled onto his belly and started raking his short fingernails through the trail of dark hair leading beneath the waistband of Grantaire’s jeans. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I mean, it doesn’t really  _matter_ —”

"Do you want me to include one night stands?" Grantaire asked sardonically. Jehan snorted. Grantaire was quiet for a moment, and then he began: "My first boyfriend was Romain, when I was 14. And a couple years after that was my first  _girl_ friend, Sara. And then there was Jeanne.”

"Who we don’t talk about," Jehan interjected.

"Who we don’t talk about," Grantaire agreed. "After her I had a rebound boy who stuck around for a year longer than he should have, because apparently he lacked the good sense to see what a fucking mess I was and get as far away from me as possible."

“ _Rebound boy_? He was so sweet to you. We’re talking about that little punk kid, right? With the septum piercing?”

"He used to flip it up before he gave me head," Grantaire said with a fond smile. "Said it interfered with his technique."

"That’s adorable. He was adorable. Poor Luc."

"Yes, poor little Luc, such a helpless lamb. I’m not much for helpless lambs, myself, so after him was Mathilde."

"She was so stunning," Jehan sighed.

"Yeah, okay, she was beautiful, and she was every bit as fucked up as me," Grantaire added. "Between the two of us, it was too much crazy for one relationship."

"You guys did spend a lot of time at each other’s throats.” Jehan hesitated. “Enjolras didn’t like her."

"Fuck Enjolras,” Grantaire said flatly. “She didn’t like him, either."

"Because she was jealous," Jehan murmured, and Grantaire shot him a pained look.

"Can we not?"

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to—sorry. It was Elise after Mathilde, wasn’t it?"

"Yeah," Grantaire muttered.

"That didn’t last long."

"We didn’t even really like each other. We were just a pair of really fucking lonely people."

"What about me?" Jehan asked, and from anyone else it would have sounded calculated and needy, but somehow he managed to make it into an honest question.

"We like each other," Grantaire said slowly, reaching out to run his thumb along Jehan’s jaw. "Don’t we?"

"I think so," Jehan said carefully. "I like  _you_.”

Grantaire frowned at him. “You’re saying that like it only goes one way.”

"Well, I don’t know. You can be hard to read," Jehan said. "You talk a lot of bullshit like you’re serious about it, and when you’re being honest you say it like it’s a joke, and it’s…confusing, sometimes."

Grantaire dropped his hand from Jehan’s face and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “Okay. “

Jehan winced at his tone—the one he used when he was offended and gearing up to rant angrily in thinly veiled metaphors for twenty minutes without pause.

"I didn’t mean it as a criticism,” he said quickly.

"You think I don’t like you."

"That’s not what I think, and it’s definitely not what I said."

Jehan’s fingers were still resting lightly against Grantaire’s hip, which was a good sign; when he was  _really_  pissed off he hated being touched at all. Jehan could probably still prevent things from getting that heated, but only if he said  _exactly_ the right thing. He was good with words, when he wasn’t too shy to voice them; and with Grantaire he was never shy, but the trouble was that Grantaire tended to react badly to artful phrasing and carefully constructed sentences. So Jehan made an effort to speak plainly, without overthinking.

“Neither of us ever said anything about—exclusivity, or, I don’t know, romance, whatever you want to call it. I don’t want to assume anything when you could just as easily have meant all of this in friendship.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment. “Okay,” he repeated eventually, but the ire was gone from his tone. “I get that.”

Jehan nodded automatically, not sure whether he was accepting the response or encouraging more of it.

“I  _do_  like you,” Grantaire said firmly.

Jehan looked at him warily. “But?”

“What? No, I’m trying to tell you I like you. Period.”

Jehan pushed himself up on his elbows and stared suspiciously at him. “Really?”

Unexpectedly, Grantaire laughed. “Your  _face_ , Prouvaire, Jesus Christ! You don’t believe me?”

Jehan flushed, but he held his ground. “I just think we might be talking about different things.”

“We’re not,” Grantaire said comfortably.

“How do you know?” Jehan asked, exasperated.

“Because you’re talking about the fact that you keep writing me erotically-charged poetry about storms,” Grantaire explained, “and I’m talking about the fact that I let you see paintings I’m still working on, and it’s the same damn thing. That’s what people like us do when—” He hesitated. “It’s how we show trust.”

“When what?” Jehan asked, latching onto the aborted phrase.

Grantaire fixed him with an exasperated look. Jehan shrugged one shoulder and smiled lopsidedly up at him; he hadn’t really expected Grantaire to elaborate, but it was worth a shot. He waited until Grantaire relaxed and returned the smile before he rolled onto his back and said, “New episode of American Horror Story tonight.”

“Jessica Lange,” Grantaire sighed worshipfully. “My queen.” His fingers came down to sift through Jehan’s hair, picking through purple highlights and carefully avoiding the single, tiny fishtail braid Musichetta had given him that morning. Jehan shut his eyes and tried to lean into it without moving at all. After a moment Grantaire said softly, “I’m sorry. I’m no good at this stuff.”

“You’re perfect,” Jehan said peaceably. “Don’t argue. Get me a pen, will you? I want to write you more erotically-charged poetry.”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire muttered, but Jehan could hear the smile in his voice, and he smiled too, content.


End file.
